Chapter 3
FLASHBACK – Andria, Age 16
Ah, yes.
The Night.
The one memory that haunts me like a cursed perfume sample in an elevator—inescapable and aggressively embarrassing.
I was sixteen, freshly out of a braces phase, high on gelato and hormones, and tragically convinced that Luca Bianchi—twenty-two, dangerous, absurdly attractive—was totally in love with me.
It all started with one of Papa’s infamous Sunday dinners. The ones where mobsters laughed like uncles, the wine flowed like river water, and Mama wore heels taller than her patience. We were seated in the grand dining hall of the Gregori estate, under the ridiculous glass chandelier shaped like a phoenix (because subtlety isn’t exactly our thing).
I was wearing this off-shoulder navy-blue dress Mama picked because it made me look “elegantly older.” I even put perfume behind my ears like some YouTube video suggested, because yes, I had plans. Terrible, tragic, teenage plans.
And there he was.
Luca Bianchi.
In all his smug, too-handsome, suit-wearing glory. Black shirt, sleeves rolled, collar slightly open. Sitting across from me with that lazy mafia prince energy—laughing at something Papa said, his hand casually swirling wine like he’d invented Cabernet.
I watched him all night like a Shakespearean tragedy in motion. He smiled at Mama. Nodded at my cousin. Flirted lightly (rude) with the waitress. But once in a while—just for a second—he’d look at me.
Really look at me.
And my heart would do that stupid cartwheel thing it still does today, the traitor.
I swear he was stealing glances. I caught him checking me out when I laughed at a joke. And again when I dropped my fork and leaned down, slow enough to make any man notice.
I remember thinking, This is it. He finally sees me. Not as Papa’s kid. Not as the annoying shadow. But as a woman.
Idiot.
The dinner ended. My parents drifted off, the guests said goodbye, and I, dramatic little lunatic that I was, told Luca I needed help finding my bracelet.
In the garden.
Under the moonlight.
Where conveniently no bracelet was missing.
He followed.
Of course he did. He always did. Ever since I was ten and I’d cried when he left for Naples, he’d always followed.
We were under the orange tree Mama loved. The smell of citrus hung in the air like a spell, and I turned to him, cheeks hot, heart racing, palms sweating like I was in some mafia-themed YA novel.
“I didn’t lose anything,” I blurted.
He raised an eyebrow, amused. “Didn’t think so.”
I stepped closer. He didn’t move. That was encouragement, right?
“You’ve been looking at me differently tonight,” I said. My voice cracked. I cleared my throat and tried again, sassier this time. “Don’t deny it.”
His smile faltered. “Andria…”
And then?
I stood on my toes and kissed him.
Right there. Right in the moonlit garden. Sixteen, dramatic, drowning in confidence I had no right owning.
And for a second?
He kissed me back.
Barely. Soft. Just lips brushing. And then—
He stepped away like I’d burned him.
“Andria, no.”
I froze.
No?
No?!
His voice was low. Torn. “You’re sixteen.”
I crossed my arms, mortified but pretending otherwise. “And I’ve been through three heartbreaks and two European vacations. I’m practically forty emotionally.”
He smiled sadly. “You’re not ready.”
“I’m in love with you,” I blurted, because why not go down in flames.
His face broke. Not into smugness. But something else.
Guilt.
Like I was a beautiful bomb he couldn’t let explode.
“I care about you too much to ever take advantage of you,” he said. “You’re...you’re still learning who you are.”
I wanted the earth to swallow me whole.
I spun on my heels. “Forget it.”
“Andria—”
“Don’t follow me again,” I snapped. “Not until I’m someone you can’t say no to.”
Spoiler alert: He did follow me. Always. And I did become someone no one said no to.
But that night?
That night I ran to my room, slammed the door, ripped off my dress, and sobbed into a Versace pillow screaming, “I’M NEVER EATING ORANGES AGAIN!”
And to this day?
I never have.
Present Day Me:
That scene replays in my head every night like a cursed rerun.
And Luca? That smug face still has the audacity to act like he doesn’t remember.
But oh, I remember.
And someday, I’ll kiss him again—only this time, I’ll be the one pulling away.
Just for the drama.
The next day was a full-blown, luxury-level game of Hide and Seek: Mafia Edition.
And no—I wasn’t proud of it. Okay, maybe just a little.
Because Luca? That smug-faced, blue-eyed, ab-flexing Greek tragedy of a man was everywhere. In the halls, by the pool, in Papa’s study, drinking espresso on my favorite balcony like he belonged there. He even dared to lean against my favorite black marble counter in the kitchen while talking to the staff like he was the new damn head of household.
It was giving territorial. It was giving smug alpha energy. It was giving get out of my sight before I kiss you out of spite.
So I hid. Obviously.
I locked myself in my room like a perfectly rational adult woman being hunted by her emotionally traumatic crush-turned-bodyguard. I claimed “migraine” to Mama, “meditating” to the guards, and “don’t you dare come near me” to the house AI.
But even in hiding, the memories stalked me.
The glances. The teenhood sighs. The almost kiss.
The way he once touched my hair when he thought I was asleep.
The way he didn’t notice when I wasn’t.
Ugh.
Why the hell did I crush on him in the first place?
And more importantly, why the hell was he still so shirtless?!
I finally emerged like a villainess reborn in leggings and a sports bra, stomping into the home gym to punch things and forget men who smelled like temptation and sin.
And there he was.
Luca. Bianchi.
Mid-rep.
Shirtless.
Dripping sweat, chest glistening like a damn cologne ad, flexing with each curl like the weights offended him personally.
I stopped mid-step.
Rolled my eyes so hard I might’ve sprained a retina.
“Oh great,” I deadpanned, grabbing a towel. “I thought this gym was off-limits to Greek statues with abandonment issues.”
He turned slowly—smug face already in place, because of course it was—and flashed that infuriating half-smile. “Didn’t know you were into working out now. Thought you preferred cardio via shopping sprees.”
I dropped the towel and picked up a dumbbell. “And I thought you’d be off hiding from your past mistakes, but here we are.”
He arched a brow, towel slung over his shoulder. “What mistakes?”
Oh, we’re doing this.
I smirked. “You know… saying no to a very emotionally stable sixteen-year-old with perfect romantic instincts and the audacity to kiss you under an orange tree?”